Love is Blindness
by Swamy
Summary: Darkness followed all her life, didn't it? And now they have this intimate relationship. Warning: dark themes.
1. Chapter 1

**Note:** I was inspired to write this by the drama "That winter, the wind blows". I wanted to write a story where you could feel the tension in every part of it, but I don't know if I could make it in the end. Beta: thanks to _Syeira Lei_.

#

Bonnie reaches out to her nightstand, patting her hand on the wood to find the switch but just as she touches it the memory of it comes back—the magic rushing through her body, burning her eyes, leaving her staring into the dark.

She bites the inside of her mouth, resisting the urge to cry, the claustrophobic feeling of helplessness, the anguish that comes with this perpetual staring into this black hole that makes her fall and fall to never touch the ground.

She breathes in, then out, closing her eyes just to trick her heart, to give an excuse for which she can't escape this darkness. Oh, but darkness followed all her life, didn't it? And now they have this intimate relationship; it touches her when she undresses, it flows on her when she's under the shower, it nourishes her when she swallows her food.

And when she thinks she might stay this way for the rest of her life she can hardly breathe, and if there's something left in her, it's pride that turns that panic into anger, kicks out her friends and pathetically breathes into a bag.

The first time she had a panic attach she threw up on the kitchen floor, and only once her stomach was empty she passed out. The shower she took when she woke up in what remained of her stomach seemed to took hours to wash away, and she had to clean up the floor of her kitchen on her knees because she couldn't let anyone see her in that state.

It's been eight days now and this is her life, staring into nothing, listening to every sound around her knowing she could never defend herself now. Knowing she can't control her powers, and therefore she cannot use them, because she'd most likely end up killing someone. She knows that if she wants to keep the last shred of dignity she must keep all of her friends at arm's length. _No matter what._

#

But he's not her friend, not really, because they were always very careful not to define the reason why they keep speaking to each other even if not always with civility, why they keep on being there to save each other despite how they like to say they don't care for the other's life, so when she yells "Get out!" he doesn't.

He doesn't do anything but snort, "Make me."

She takes her mug from the place where she left it and throws it in his direction, knowing that without any ability to aim and with his reflexes it will only hit the wall. It breaks loudly and the pieces go flying around – she can tell because a splinter touches her cheek and it slightly stings.

"Not bad, " he says, sounding pleased, "_for a disabled_," he adds.

Bonnie puts her hand on the table knowing she won't find anything this time around, yet she hopes, she hopes _so badly_. It's not even comparable to the hopes she has to open her eyes one day and see, because this feeling is so violent.

"You're going to regret this," she threatens him, talking between her teeth.

"Yeah, right." he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "It would be about time that you did something other than pitying yourself. I remember you being much more entertaining, but I must have overestimated you."

"I'm so sorry my blindness is not amusing enough," she must keep herself from trembling with rage, with the suppressed desire to cry out her fear. He keeps picking her spots like there are many _X _on her body and he knows exactly where to hit, where it will hurt the most, "It must be so hard on you."

"It is," he says, his tone light, "Thanks for recognizing it."

For a moment the desire to tear him to shreds with her hands is so strong that she launches herself at him, scratching his face with her nails, trying to sink them into his flesh, into his eyes. She thinks that he lets her. Under her strained fingers she can almost _feel_ the grin on his soft lips, but then both her wrists are closed into an iron hold and she's suddenly pressed with her back against the wall.

Bonnie can feel his breath on her mouth as she pants with the rush of adrenaline that hit her just an instant ago.

"This is the Bonnie I know," he says. There's some sort of relief in his voice but she doesn't care to understand right now.

She's pinned against the wall, her arms stretched above her head and the space between them is small and heavy with tension, with unreleased power, with whatever it is that they could never define.

"No," she says, before kneeing him between his legs, feeling his gasp against the skin of her neck as he bends forward, "_This_ is the Bonnie you know. She says _Hi_."

#

No one scolds a blind girl for missing a day at school. Lucky her.

Her friends want to cater to her every need, and it's new to her, and it's humiliating. She likes it much better when others keep away and whisper behind her back.

There are a lot of stories going on about her blindness; her favorite is the one in which she's been abducted by the aliens and their experiments made her blind.

Her friends decided that they needed to get away, so they took her to the lake house. It will be relaxing, so they said. It usually is, because there's a beautiful view, but mind you she can't see a thing.

The last time she was there Jeremy was alive, and she had spent a good portion of time watching his ass; now, even if her eyes decided to suddenly give their collaboration, there would be no Jeremy to look at, because he's ashes, somewhere where the Gilbert house once stood.

At least she has some peace. Stefan and Elena left to go grocery shopping. Caroline will arrive with Tyler only in the afternoon.

Bonnie walks ahead, manages to find the stairs and counts as she goes, to stop once she feels her feet touch the water.

It's strange how it works with people that want to kill themselves. If they decide to throw themselves from a roof they take off their glasses – God forbid they have a cut on your face as the police pick their body from the ground using a spoon. If they decide to use pills they lay down on the bed so that they're ready to be mourned as soon as they are found. A woman that decides to end it by cutting her wrists will clean and rearrange the bathroom before watching the water become red. A soldier that kills himself will do it only once he has on his uniform and with one shot in the mouth.

Bonnie took off her shoes and folded her clothes, and now she shivers as she enters the water. The feeling of being enveloped by it is exciting, exhilarating. She raises her face to the sky to feel the sun on her cheeks as the next steps has her with her shoulders already underwater.

She holds her breath as her hearing gets muffle with the water. She wills her muscles to freeze, not fight it, because for once the dark is soft, lulling. She can enjoy her rest now, like she didn't in days.

Her body starts convulsing, what remains of the human instinct to survive kicks in pushing her to move her legs to reemerge but she fights it. It lasts just a few seconds but she resists long enough, and when she passes out she's bitterly _proud_ of herself.

#

The air pushed in her lungs is almost as violent as the lips on her mouth and she chocks the water, turning on her side to let it out.

"What the fuck did you think you were doing, huh?"

At the beginning Bonnie doesn't recognize his voice, so much it roars above her. But then one hand holds her face pressing on her cheeks, making it impossible to answer his question anyway.

"You try that again and I'll save you the trouble," his threat low and vibrant, as she feels his face close to hers, "because I will kill you myself."

Damon picks her up with no gentleness, she feels almost dizzy but more than anything she feels ashamed.

She was weak, and of all people Damon had to be the one to witness her state. It's like the universe is having a big laugh at her expenses. One by one she lost everyone and everything, and what's left is an angry vampire snarling in the dark as she sits on the edge of her bed.

He throws a towel against her body and orders her to dry herself. She complies with no protest; what can she say that will count for something? She just tried to kill herself. He won't trust a single word anyway, and it's not like Damon was ever big on trust.

Bonnie is still dressed only with her bra and panties but strangely enough she doesn't feel self-conscious. She has still one third of the lake in her stomach, Damon is treating her like he can't bear her sight, and this is the only thing about darkness that's good. You don't get easily embarrassed by the things you can't see.

She hears the sound of a plug inserted into a socket, then the mattress shifts because of the weight of Damon's body as he kneels behind her.

"What-" she tries to ask, turning around out of habit, but she stops her with his hands.

"Shut up," he says, his voice hard, as he sits with his legs on her sides, "In case you didn't notice, I'm angry with you, so shut up."

And then he turns on a hair-drier and starts touching her hair, to make the warm hair reach her scalp. His fingers touch her gently, even though she can feel the tension in his muscles. His jeans brush against her bare skin and the contact feels _loud_.

"I don't care how you feel," his voice is low, like he's talking to himself, yet she can hear him through the noise – sensory amplification and all that, "I don't give a shit about how badly you want this to be over. You don't get to take the easy way out. "

"Damon-"

"Shut up. I don't want to hear it!" he says, and his hand stops for a moment.

"Damon."

"What freaking part of the phrase _shut up_ is not clear enough to you?" he asks, exasperated.

"Thank you."

If it wasn't impossible she'd swear she heard him swallow.

#

"Who's there?"

It's a useless question, for two reasons. She knows who's there, and he never answered any of the times she asked. None of the days or nights he showed up uninvited into her house, into her bedroom.

Every time she tells him, "I don't feel like dying today," even if it's a lie. Even if he knows.

Sometimes she reminds him "This is breaking and entering," and he corrects her because "If you know where the spare key is, it's only entering, really."

She turns around, counts the steps to the counter top and pours herself some coffee.

"Want some?"

It takes him long enough to answer. The silence is heavy, she can feel his eyes on her and it's unsettling, but not in a bad way.

"Yeah," he says, "You can distinguish between salt and sugar, right?"

Their fingers touch as he takes the mug from her hands, and the contact it's just one second too long than it should be.

"I don't know," she answers, "Everyday it's an adventure," she smiles, "Let's find out," and she touches the border of her own mug with her lips but doesn't drink.

"We're lucky today," he says.

"Are we?" she asks.

He doesn't say anything and the heaviness is still there, in the air around them, pressing against her chest to take the breath away from her. She feels warm _everywhere_, and maybe it's the coffee and maybe it's not.

"Something wrong?" she asks, trying to rationalize what she's feeling. What he's _making_ her feel.

"Not at all."

"Your pitch is slightly shilling," she says, enjoying her control. It's funny somehow to think that the blind girl can corner the bad vampire only by listening to his voice.

"You're a blind pain in the ass," he says.

"You're a worse liar than you take credit for," she strikes back, before abandoning the mug on the counter top to walk to him.

Bonnie doesn't say anything, just reaches out with her hands, touching his face, tracing his cheekbones, his nose, up to his eyebrows. This time she is sure she can hear him swallow, and he closes his eyes as her fingertips travel down his eyelids, his eyelashes; one hand stopping again at his cheek, cupping it, the other one hesitating with one finger on his lips.

Her breath catches in her throat feeling his lips parting slightly. It's not something her eyes would really see, but she can _feel_ it and her mouth is suddenly dry.

"I was checking for myself how big your lie actually was," she says, taking her hands away from him.

"Is that what you were doing?" he asks, this time his voice is husky, affected by _her. _He doesn't need to say it for her to know, even if she would really not mind to hear it. And yet, as long as they don't say it, this is not real. This is only one of those strange dreams you do when the night is at its darkest.

"Touching is my way to see," she explains, turning her back on him.

"Sometimes seeing is just a useless torture," and he sounds so bitter, so frustrated. She doesn't want to know why.

#

She counts a lot, she goes out with Caroline and Elena and Matt, she learned brail because it's been three months now and her future looks as dark as ever. No pun intended.

They stop by the mansion one day, because Caroline needs to give something to Stefan. Bonnie does not protest at all, she says she's glad to _see_ Stefan, it's been awhile. She doesn't say she wants to _see _Damon more, because it sounds way worse.

Of course Caroline cannot find whatever it is she wanted to give Stefan so Bonnie walks to the front door and gets welcomed by the younger Salvatore, as her friend stay behind, searching the car.

"Hey there," he says, sounding like he's just been caught with his hand in the biscuit jar "It's a surprise."

"A good one?" she asks, walking inside.

"The best I had this week," he says, sounding way too sincere to not make her suspect something is wrong.

"Glad to know," she says, "Hi Damon."

"I was waiting to see when you'd notice me."

"Did I make you sweat?"

Before he can reply with some probably sexual remark Caroline arrives with her energy and something that falls to the ground when she gasps.

"What the hell happened to your eyes?"

Bonnie is confused for a moment, "I thought we were past that," she says.

"Not you," Caroline answers, "Damon."

"Just a little… accident. Nothing that won't heal. Vampire here, remember?" he asks.

"Stefan, how many steps?" Bonnie interrupts them.

"Bonnie, it's really-"

"How many?"

"Four steps to the coffee table, one on your left then two to the sofa."

She's used to this, circumnavigate furniture, orientating herself with indications and memory and numbers, and so she's fast to find his face, the bandage covering his eyes; she can feel the eye socket where the right eye should be.

"Little accident?"

"Maybe not so little."

Maybe not an accident. But no one says it.

#

"How are your eyes?" she asks, brushing her hair as she sits at her dresser.

"There are two possible answers to this question," he explains, "One is well."

"And the other one?"

"Way too well," and from his tone she knows what he's talking about. Her lips curve into a smile and she puts her hairbrush down on the table.

"You're not wearing much," he says, trying to keep his voice steady, "Aren't you cold?"

She's wearing just a tank top and a pair of shorts, with no bra, but this is how she goes to bed and it's not her fault he picked such an improper hour to visit her. It's not really her fault he never learned the fine art of knocking either. More than anything it's not her fault she takes satisfaction in making him uncomfortable.

"Not really," she answers.

She can't see his eyes that keep going down to her nipples showing through the thin fabric of her top, to the visible curve of her breast as she turns around.

"Is everything okay?" she asks, but he doesn't answer.

"I don't feel like dying today," she recites, as always.

But this time, for the first time, he says something back.

"I do."

Bonnie doesn't have time to ask him what he means, and as he crashes his mouth to hers, she has no reason to for it's as clear as the sun. He makes the dark light up with a sparkle of desire and it's more than she's wished for lately.

He's so close. His hands cup her cheeks as he enters her mouth and she finds herself on the table of her dresser. She recognizes her perfume bottle falling to the ground from the sound that it makes but she can't really think about it now.

Damon's tongue is gentle, in spite of the sudden impulse it came from, yet his kiss is deep like he wants to plunder her mouth, suck away her soul from there. She doesn't mind the idea. She wants to do just the same to him after all, doesn't she?

She holds to his shoulders opening her legs to give him space, to have him closer, and then, when he stops kissing her and his hand slips under her top to cup her breast she stays still. Her heartbeat resounds in her chest, against his palm and she shivers.

His breath is harsh against her face and she can feel him trying to gain control. Bonnie reaches out to cup his face and he moans like a wounded animal, making her heart ache. His kisses her palm, his hands are at her sides now as he asks "Can you see me?"

"Bits of you," she says, tracing his face.

When he doesn't move nor says anything she adds, "I've already seen the worse of you, now I want to see all the rest."

Damon releases a breath she hadn't realized he was holding and kisses her again. "I can arrange that," he says, picking her up to place her on the bed. She fists his shirt and pulls him down, and she sits on his lap, pressing her lips against his, telling him "Don't move."

"I'll try but I can give you no guarantee."

Bonnie smiles unbuttoning his shirt, slipping it off his shoulders, to discover every muscle of his body with her lips and tongue. It's a long, tortuous journey in which her mouth kisses and sucks and caresses as he keeps his fingers in her hair, following her movements on him. When her hands travel his navel and reach the button of his jeans she can feel the muscles of his abdomen contracting with anticipation and she smiles.

"Witch!" he accuses her.

Once the button is open she waits, to hear the light pull that his hardness makes against the zipper of his jeans. She cups him through the fabric and he thrusts against her hand. A moan escapes his lips and she lowers his zipper taking his sex into her hand when it's released from its confines.

She gives him a stroke, feeling the texture of his skin under her fingertips, and he moans louder pressing his forehead against her shoulder.

"Sorry," she says, biting her lower lip.

"We will have a talk once my brain starts functioning again," he says, making her giggle.

"Fair enough," she says before taking off her top.

"Is it better like this?" she asks, wishing she could see the way he looks at her now.

This time it's from her that a moan escapes, because he licks at one of her nipples without any warning.

"I told you I gave no guarantee," he murmurs against her wet skin, placing his open mouth on her breast to suck as he massages her side and then cups her ass. By instinct she thrusts herself on his lap and feels his hardness pushing against her shorts.

For a moment he brings his mouth to her ear to tell her, "I don't like to make compliments during sex. It's too cliché, but-" he needs to stop for a moment, to clear his breaking voice, "in the morning, once you're too tired to do it again and you threaten to cut off my family jewels if I don't stop harassing you, I will tell you exactly how gorgeous you are and you're going to have to listen to me, understood?"

"Yes," she nods, frantically. She can feel the pleasure rippling through her veins, drawing to her sex.

His mouth goes back to her breast as his hands pull down her shorts to free her from the last trace of fabric that covered to him. Bonnie gasped as his fingers found her sex.

In her now dark world she can only feel, there is no shame, no shyness, nothing except all that Damon can give her and so she bends back and rides his skillful fingers, holding on to his shoulder.

"Fuck, have mercy on me," she hears him beg. And then he pulls her down on his erection. The penetration is painful - of course, considering she never did this before - and her back arches.

"God, you are-"

"_Was_, is the correct verb, I think," she says, unmoving, as she tries to adjust to his size. A few moments later she chooses the peace herself, moving on him, up and down so slowly that he wants to kill himself.

"Don't," she says, reading the language of his body.

"Don't what?"

"Don't hold back."

And he doesn't, for he has no way to ignore the desire she ignites in him, the call of their mutual need. His hands on her bottom dictate a new rhythm, which she learns fast, and when he flips her on her back to cover her, she just let him, letting him take charge.

It's freeing to trust someone with your pleasure and your safety, she realizes. And she trusts Damon. So she slips her arms around his shoulders and holds him close as he moves in and out of her.

"I've never-" he says in the hard rhythm of his trusts, "I never had something so right, and fair," he confesses, keeping his forehead against hers.

"It feels good," she says, because it does and her world is made of this – of the things she can feel, of the things she can touch and trust.

"What if I give you more?" he asks, and she's not sure what he really means but her body reacts faster than her mind and on her tongue rolls the word _"Yes_" while her hands hold onto his ass to follow the movement of his pelvis, to feel the contraction of his muscles.

She throws her head back, her hips rise to meet him and she feels his hand slipping under one knee to bend her leg and bring it over his shoulders. The new angle of penetration it makes her feel vulnerable, exposed, and it's the first time it doesn't feel wrong. Quite the opposite.

So when she hears him say, "You're so tight. Am I hurting you?"

She rushes to deny, shaking her head, repeating, "No, please, no, don't stop," as her release hits her.

"I want you-" he must stop in between his thrusts "so badly-" because he can't think straight while being inside of her "you'd have to kill me to make me stop."

He doesn't stop, and soon she's coming again, and her blindness is not pitch black anymore but is made of white, hot pleasure.

#

"You're watching me," she says without raising her eyes from the floor, and there's only a tender reproach in her voice as she slips her leg into her stocking and smiles.

"I can hardly be blamed," he says, kneeling in front of her to place a kiss on her knee. His gesture makes her stay still for a moment.

"But you got it wrong, you're supposed to take off your clothes, not cover yourself up," he explains like he's talking to a baby. He has this habit, usually after sex, only to bargain for more sex. He's bad – the word is adorable, really, but she will never tell him – like that.

"Are you disappointed?"

"Not at all, undressing you is my favorite activity," he reassures her with a light tone, "I absolutely love y-" and as soon as he realizes what he said he corrects himself "_it_-" and he feels extremely stupid "I mean. I'm not-"

"In love with me?" she asks, her eyes on him.

"Well- I won't say it if you don't want me to say it," it's not even been a month and sometimes he feels like an idiot, like a scared puppy she could just kick out from her life once she realized what she got into, "Everything can stay the same if you like it better this way. You and me, and what I feel for you, which we can call _love_ since it's the usual definition, or we can call _hate_… a very passionate, tender kind of hate which makes me want to be inside of you all day long, and hold you, and bite off the head of every man who looks your way, or we can just not call it at all, and use our mouths to- you're watching me."

"As you blabber like I've just asked you if I'm fat."

"You are not fat. I love every ounce of flesh on your body but you're looking at me."

"Yes," she says, "It's still blurry but now I… see you." Every part, really, and even if some of them need a good kick in the ass every now and again, she likes what she learned to see.

"I'm hot, aren't I?" he asks, joking. Of course, you can always count on Damon to focus on the important part of any event.

"Oh, what the hell have I got myself into?" she asks, but because she's smiling he can hear the question without any worry, "You, narcissist ass, get out!" she orders him, her smile still in place as she's pointing her finger towards the door of her bedroom.

"Make me," he dares her.

#

_A little death_  
_Without mourning_  
_No call_  
_No Warning_  
_Baby, a dangerous idea…_  
_Almost makes… sense_

_[Love is Blindness - U2]_

**the end.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Note:** I received a lot of requests to add more to this story so I took up Sunny-C suggestion and wrote a companion piece. Now it's truly over. I hope you'll like it. Again thanks to _Syeira Lei._

#

He stands there, unblinkingly looking at her, trying hard to understand and yet unable to absorb the notion.

Bonnie's open hands are up in front of her, searching for a handhold and Caroline rushes to her side as she repeats in a broken whisper, "I can't see anything."

Damon doesn't move, just watches as everyone orbits around her – her, the resident witch, the one who's always saving the day, the one that orders nature to awaken and it obeys – that is a scared bundle of nerves, a powerful waste that's trying to not tremble four feet from where he stands still. The deafening beating of her tender heart suffocated in darkness and fear afflicts his empowered hearing forcing him to see her, in a way he had wished he would never: Bonnie Bennett, only human, only barely eighteen, only trying her best to do what's right not because of any reason but the fact that it's right and that's enough.

And because he's only a vampire, only an egoist son of a bitch, trying to survive the only way he knows, he can't take it. He will gladly let everyone else take care of her, to forget this ever happened – to _her._

#

The memory of her wide open, scared and empty, staring green eyes is haunting, and he never once asked about her condition, in the childish hope that whatever happened will be untrue if only he denies it hard enough. After all, it's not like there's anyone who's expecting him to give a shit about her. He's usually the first one to push her into suicide missions – it doesn't count for anything the fact that he's usually there to back her up because, well, _it's doesn't_, because it's not like he cares.

It just bothers him to listen to Elena when she tells Stefan, "Bonnie suddenly kicked us out, just like that," mostly because they both _let_ her.

"Maybe I said something wrong," he hears her say.

"Maybe she needed some space," Stefan comforts her; yet despite the fact that he was the first one to leave the sinking ship, he doesn't like the idea of _giving her space;_ doesn't she have too much of it, now that everything is just black and unfathomable and empty around her?

#

He just wanted to take a peek at her, being his stalking self, and look at her through the window. Instead he knocks at her front door, and lets himself in even if she's clearly mistaken him for someone else. It's not his problem, she should just be careful with her words. This will teach her.

"I suppose you didn't get my message," she says, faking a smile, "I'm really sorry, Matt, but I just wanna stay home and rest."

Bonnie stands next to the table, a gracious mix of helplessness and vulnerability wrapped up in a nice smelling, silk-skinned, luxuriant beauty in mahogany and stagnant power - every vampire's fantasy banquet, on display for anyone to take and break, and it's not a hard task considering she invites serial killers under her roof just like that.

"For what? From the strain of staying home?" he asks, bitter. There's something bubbling inside of him, and to his surprise he realizes that it is anger.

"Damon," she says, her pleased expression falling immediately, "What are you doing here?"

"You know, paying a visit," he explains, "Happy to _see_ me?"

"I just found a positive side in being blind," she answers, crossing her arms on her chest. She looks as threatening as a kitten, and he smirks.

"I'm here to serve."

"I don't want you to serve, and surely as hell I don't want you to be here. So, get out."

He can tell she's waiting for him to give in, because he doesn't care enough to put up a fight; she's totally right, he tells himself, but he finds her amusing right now, so why not have some fun when he has the upper hand? Who knows, maybe he'll got lucky and will shake some of her old self into her.

"No."

"Get out."

He snorts at such naiveté. Two weeks ago she could dispose of him with a wave of her hand, but now the table has turned – and he doesn't like it. Being the black sheep has stopped being fun because she's too busy pitying herself to think of him.

"Make me."

To his delight she takes a mug and throws it his way. He thinks he would be more excited only if she had hit him.

"Not bad," he says, pleased at her, "_for a disabled_," he adds to provoke her once again. He sees the tiny cut on her left cheek bloom into a drop of ruby red blood, but doesn't move. When she pats the table in search of something else to throw his way Damon thinks he's got a plan.

"You're going to regret this," she threatens him. The kitten just got sexy.

"Yeah, right," he says, his voice intentionally dripping with sarcasm, "It would be about time that you did something other than pitying yourself. I remember you being much more entertaining, but I must have overestimated you."

"I'm so sorry my blindness is not amusing enough. It must be so hard on you."

"It is," he says, disgusted by the suspect that he's telling the truth, "Thanks for recognizing it."

Her green eyes, staring into nothing, searching for him in the darkness that surrounds her, and they are _so alive_ that he thinks this must be the first plan he comes up with that actually works, because he can see her. He can see Bonnie. And it's been so long since the last time they met that when she launches herself at him he lets her. He wants her to remember what it's like to be able to put him down, have a century-old vampire at her mercy, and then he flips them until she's pinned against the wall.

"This is the Bonnie I know," he says. The relief he feels last only a few moments, until he realizes he's got her wrists in his hand, locked and stretched above her head and the unexpected urge to fill the tiny space between them with his whole body makes him bite his own tongue.

"No," she says, kneeing him between his legs, conveniently interrupting the afflux of blood to his southern region, "_This_ is the Bonnie you know. She says _Hi_."

#

He's not invited to the lake, but he never needed an invitation for anything. The only reason for joining them is the memory of an inappropriate bodily reaction to Bonnie's proximity; well, he supposes a part of him – a very specific part – was quite _happy_ _to see her_.

He thinks that falling back into their old habits – basically consisting in a rhythmical exchange of insults and attacks – the only flag raising will be the white one of the loser. Not him, if he's got anything to say about it.

In any case, she's blind. She knows nothing about his dirty thoughts or the sudden, startling hunger he felt for her that afternoon. He just really missed her, he supposes, and his body reacted accordingly, maybe with just a bit too much enthusiasm; but, hey, he's still a man. It happens. No big deal. It's not like he has actual feelings for her, because of Elena, because of everything. He feels safe from falling for anyone else, let alone his favorite witch.

So, after reassuring himself with a solid argument, he calls for her from the first floor of the lake house. When she doesn't answer him, he walks up to her room, which turns out to be empty. He can't hear her heartbeat and her smell is way too faint for her to be there. Still he enters her room, like he would find the answers to her nature, to her effect on him, between her things, in the walls that welcomed her that morning.

Looking around he catches something moving on the other side of the glass, and as he directs his gaze in that direction, cocking his head to the side, he recognizes her. He can clearly see her head as she goes underwater. Damon blinks, letting the notion reach his brain, and growling, rushes to get to her before it's too late.

#

Her lips are soft and icy against his, and rage makes him press him mouth on her harder then he really needs to. The third time he breathes into her she arches off the ground and rolls on her side to expel the water she swallowed.

"What the fuck did you think you were doing, huh?" he asks, enraged and uncaring about showing it. "You try that again and I'll save you the trouble," he says, bending over her to speak almost against her ear, "because I will kill you myself."

Damon picks her up with no gentleness, like she's a thing to dispose of, like a potato sack.

She was weak and selfish and she tried to leave… _them_. Just like that. She really picked the wrong time to finally do something for herself. Maybe he's not her best friend, and maybe he doesn't flaunt his appreciation of her, but if there's something he ever did, it was trusting her, and she just threw it back in his face. Doesn't she know what she just _did_ _to him_?

Damon puts her down on the bed, takes a towel and throws it at her. If she doesn't dry herself she's going to die of pneumonia. And since she's at it, she could do him the favor to covering herself up; but _no_, God forbid she to do anything to makes things easier on him. So he thinks he's going to busy himself by drying her hair.

He inserts the plug into the socket, and then places one knee on the bed, right behind her.

"What-" she tries to ask, turning around out of habit, but he stops her with his hands. He doesn't even want to look at her face.

"Shut up," he says, his voice hard as he sits with one leg on each side of her. "In case you didn't notice, I'm angry with you, so shut up."

And then he turns on a hair-drier and starts touching her hair, to make the warm air reach her scalp. He's quite tempted to snap her neck and be done with it, but his fingers move on their own, very gently, and he lets them. He really doesn't want to think right now or he will only get angrier.

_For God sake_, does she at least know what she just tried to do? She's Bonnie _fucking_ Bennett and it doesn't matters how pitiful her situation is because she's still Bonnie _fucking_ Bennett and he expects more from her. It might be too much to ask of a human, but she's not _any_ human.

"I don't care how you feel," he says, talking to himself, "I don't give a shit about how badly you want this to be over. You don't get to take the easy way out. "

"Damon-"

"Shut up. I don't want to hear it!" he says, and stops moving for a moment, scared he might hurt her out of rage.

"Damon."

"What freaking part of the phrase _shut up_ is not clear enough to you?" he asks, exasperated.

"Thank you."

There was something stuck in his throat up to now, he realizes, and he can finally push it down in a swallow.

#

"Who's there?"

If he tells her, she's probably going to ask why he's there and he really has no clue about that. He's just glad she doesn't try to kick him out, maybe out of gratitude for not revealing to anyone her dirty secret. _Quid pro quo, _right? He shuts the hell up about her suicide intentions and in exchange she lets him make sure she doesn't try it again.

Every time she tells him, "I don't feel like dying today," and even if he knows it's a lie, he likes to hear it. He's content in letting her shelter him from this, because he might be the big, bad vampire, but this is something he cannot face. Not now, not ever, regardless of what it might mean.

Sometimes she reminds him, "This is breaking and entering," and he corrects her because, "If you know where the spare key is, it's only entering, really."

He sees her turning around, graceful like a ballerina placed in the middle of a carillon, and pour herself some coffee.

"Want some?"

It takes him a moment to understand what she means with that _some _because being blind, strangely enough, made her less self-conscious and way more seductive. Bonnie is now so uncaring about the limits she can't see anymore, her beauty so unleashed, her bearing so bold that half the time she speaks her meditative tone seems to come out of the bedroom.

"Yeah," he says, "You can distinguish between salt and sugar, right?" he asks, trying to disguise the stupidity of his reaction to the most innocent question.

Their fingers touch as he takes the mug from her hands, and he's tempted to grip them.

"I don't know," she answers. "Everyday it's an adventure." She smiles. "Let's find out," and she touches the border of her own mug with her lips but doesn't drink.

_Fuck,_ is she doing this on purpose? Yeah, right, like there's any chance. _Get a grip, Salvatore._

"We're lucky today," he says.

"Are we?" she asks.

He suspects she's getting a kick out of this. Having him on his toes, for reasons she probably doesn't even fully comprehend.

"Something wrong?" she asks, breaking the heavy tension between them.

"Not at all."

"Your pitch is slightly shilling," she says. Scratch the suspect part, he thinks, she's enjoying her control. And didn't he want this for her from his first visit? Just, he doesn't like how it turned out.

"You're a blind pain in the ass," he says.

"You're a worse liar than you take credit for," she strikes back, before abandoning the mug on the counter top to walk to him.

Damon stares at her, amazed to see her getting closer, then amazed at her fingers on his face, tracing it like an unexplored territory. He swallows as he wills himself to stay still, and watched mesmerized by her green eyes, where something akin to pride dances.

His lips part slightly, subconsciously, as her fingers rest on his lips. Sometimes he thinks he could eat her alive just to imprison her in his own cold flesh.

"I was checking for myself how big your lie actually was," she says, taking her hands away from him.

"Is that what you were doing?" he asks, wishing for her to deny it, to tell him she just wanted to touch him as much as he wants to touch her.

"Touching is my way to see," she explains, turning her back on him.

"Sometimes seeing is just a useless torture," because now he sees her, sees all that he chose to ignore before and it _hurts_.

#

It was just an idea like any other – more or less – but he's always been the impulsive one. That's why he finds himself growling in pain with a knife plunged into his right eye. The pain from the sudden extraction is almost as vivid as the one he got putting it there in the first place.

"What the hell are you doing?" Stefan asks, his voice so unusually loud, holding him by one shoulder.

Damon grimaces covering his eye socket with his right hand, "Experimenting."

"What?"

"They say the pirate look does wonders with the ladies," he explains, trying to maintain some kind of composure despite all.

"This is not going to help her!"

_Ugh._ Stefan is so annoyingly understanding. He loathes that about him, because sharing the same blood, surname, and taste in women doesn't allow him to be such a freaking, all-knowing ass.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he says, "If you're referring to Bonnie, I'm not trying to help her," he defends himself. He just wanted to know what she is feeling, everyday.

"You don't need to pierce your eyes with our silverware, it is unhygienic," Stefan says, trying to refrain from punching his brother in the face, "You are always blind when it comes to her, anyway."

"What the fuck are you saying?" But Stefan doesn't answer his question. Damon hears him walk away with his halo and his stupid cryptic attitude, "Stefan!" he calls him again to make him come back, but with no result.

"At least, don't tell her!" Or he will never hear the end of it.

#

He can see her reflection in the mirror in front of her. One strap of her tank top is down on her shoulder and she's wearing no bra.

"How are your eyes?" she asks, brushing her hair as she sits at her dresser.

"There are two possible answers to this question," he explains, "One is well."

Is he really going to tell her that? He guesses he has no choice. His muscles are about to break from the tension of the restrain he forces himself to use around her.

"And the other one?"

"Way too well."

He's trying to be delicate here – she should appreciate that much – since the alternative it would be to describe exactly what he wants to do to her, and that could get crude - and deliciously dirty but - mind you. It turns out he's a romantic at heart. Yeah, sue him.

"You're not wearing much," he says, trying to keep his voice steady. "Aren't you cold?"

This is the last chance she has to send a signal that his attention is unwelcomed, but she's so unaware of the extent of what she's doing to him - of her nipples showing through the thin fabric of her top, to the visible curve of her breast as she turns around - and yet so impossibly conscious of her power.

"Not really," she answers.

Damon can't help but stare, and he can almost taste her on the tip of his tongue.

"Is everything okay?" she asks, but he doesn't answer.

"I don't feel like dying today," she recites, as always.

But this time, for the first time, he says something back.

"I do."

He crashes his mouth against hers, and there's a spark igniting between them, he can feel it so clearly that he thinks they're going to set the whole town on fire. His hands cup her cheeks as he enters her mouth and he manages to move her onto the dressing table.

Damon's tongue is gentle in spite of the sudden impulse it came from, yet his kiss is deep; he wants to know what her soul tastes like and almost thinks he's going to. She holds to his shoulders opening her legs to give him space, and he gets closer, loving the feel of her legs around him. He stops kissing her just to look at her face, to know what she's thinking now that he did what he'd wanted to for so long. His hand cups her breast under her tank top and her heartbeat gives its own answer, frantically pulsing against his palm, through his flesh.

He needs to gain control, to take this slowly or he'll just break her in the frenzy to have her. But then again, will she let him? Does she really know who's touching her? Not just his name, but all the baggage attached to it?

"Can you see me?"

"Bits of you," she says, tracing his face, "I've already seen the worse of you, now I want to see all the rest."

And it's so reassuring, so liberating, that he must kiss her again.

"I can arrange that," he says, picking her up to place her on the bed. She fists his shirt and pulls him down, and she sits on his lap, pressing her lips against his, telling him, "Don't move." Like that's going to be easy.

"I'll try but I can give you no guarantee."

Bonnie smiles and unbuttons his shirt, slipping it off his shoulders and tracing his muscles with her body. Getting to know him. Tormenting him. But after a few minutes the pleasure is so sweet, the desire is so bad that his eyes roll back into his head. The muscles of his abdomen contracts at her teasing caress.

"Witch!" he accuses her. She opens the button of his jeans and waits – maybe for him to pass out, who knows, she just looks quite pleased with herself – then she cups him through the fabric and he can't help thrust against her hand. A moan escapes his lips as she lowers his zipper, finally wrapping her hand around his erection. It's so erotic watching this, her gracious fingers around him, tips not touching; her mahogany skin against his ivory.

She gives him a stroke and he moans louder, pressing his forehead against her shoulder. Is she trying to kill him? In that case the tactic seems quite effective, he should congratulate her.

"Sorry," she says, biting her lower lip.

"We will have a talk once my brain starts functioning again," he says, making her giggle.

"Fair enough," she says before taking off her top.

"Is it better like this?"

He's _starving _for her, and so out of instinct he licks at her nipple with the tip of his tongue.

"I told you I gave no guarantee," he murmurs against her wet skin, placing his open mouth on her breast to suck as he massages her side and then cups her ass. On instinct she thrusts herself on his lap and feels his hardness pushing against her shorts. He holds himself, thinking of the moment when there will be no barrier between them and he finally, _rightfully_ will sink into her.

He brings his mouth to her ear to tell her, "I don't like to make compliments during sex. It's too cliché, but-" he needs to stop for a moment, to clear his breaking voice, "in the morning, once you're too tired to do it again and you threaten to cut off my family jewels if I don't stop harassing you, I will tell you exactly how gorgeous you are and you're going to have to listen to me, understood?"

"Yes," she nods, frantically, consumed with desire just as much as he is.

His mouth goes back to her breast as his hands pull down her shorts to free her from the last trace of fabric that [kept her from] him. He can hear her gasp once he found her sex, once he touched the warm proof of the way she wants him.

Looking up at her he can see the pleasure on her face, as naked as her body, as she moves on his hand, riding his fingers with shameless abandon as she holds onto his shoulders.

"Fuck, have mercy on me," he begs. And then he pulls her down on his erection. He can feel the breaking of her hymen and he gasps watching her arch back.

"God, you are-"

"_Was_, is the correct verb, I think," she says, unmoving, as she tries to adjust to his size. A few moments later she chooses the pace herself, moving on him, up and down so slowly that he wants to kill himself.

"Don't," she says, voice breaking.

"Don't what?"

"Don't hold back."

And he doesn't, for he has no way to ignore the desire she ignites in him, the call of their mutual need. His hands on her bottom dictate a new rhythm, which she learns fast, and when he flips her on her back to cover her, she just let him, letting him take charge.

She's trusting him in a way no one ever did before and it makes him feel proud, powerful, worthy.

She slips her arms around his shoulders and holds him close as he moves in and out of her.

"I've never-" he says in the hard rhythm of his trusts, "I never had something so right, and fair," he confesses, keeping his forehead against hers.

"It feels good," she says.

"What if I give you more?" he asks, and to tell the truth he's not sure what he's talking about because he wants to enjoy her body over and over but he knows he wants more than that. He can't deny it, not really, not anymore. So, that when she says _"Yes_" it's like something is bursting inside of him, and it shows in his rhythm, in the way he possesses her.

He raises one of her legs onto his shoulder so that she will be completely open to him and it feels just right to have her like this. He wants to take care of her, give her pleasure, give her anything he has.

"You're so tight. Am I hurting you?"

She rushes to deny it, shaking her head, repeating, "No, please, no, don't stop," as her release hits her.

She's _a sight_. Unrivaled, for any other woman he ever met pales in comparison – he just chose to ignore it until now, when she's too close for her beauty to not _blind_ him.

"I want you-" he must stop in between his thrusts "so badly-" because he can't think straight while he's inside of her "you'd have to kill me to make me stop."

He doesn't stop, and soon she's coming again, and his heart is not pitch black anymore but it's made of mahogany and light.

#

He's spooning her as she sleeps. Their bodies fitting against each other like they were born this way, naked, side by side on her bed.

There's nothing that could force him apart from her right now, but he can hear the door opening, and Elena's eyes growing wider breaks the spell. He puts his index finger on his lips and waves his hand to signal her to leave. His nudity, as he stands from the bed, is enough to send her away, at least downstairs.

Damon bends on the bed to kiss Bonnie's temple and then dresses before heading to the kitchen. Elena is pacing up and down the room and he rolls his eyes as he takes two eggs from the fridge.

"Damon, what did you do to-"

"Seriously?" he asks, raising his eyebrows, "Do I have to start from the birds and the bees or we can skip that?"

"You're not funny," she says.

"I disagree," he answers, breaking the shells of the eggs to pour them into a pan, "I've been invited to stay, by the way, but I can't say the same about you."

"She's my best friend and-"

"Save your breath, Elena," he says, starting to scramble the eggs. "This is not a one night stand," he says, even if he really doesn't know what this is. "In fact, this is not the first night I'm spending here."

"I just don't want-"

"I don't give a damn what you want," he says, fixing his blue eyes onto her brown ones. "I know you weren't expecting this, and God only knows how much I tried to stay away from her, but I _can't_ and I _won't,_ and if you try to ruin this for me, Elena, I swear to God I'll make you regret it, if it's the last thing I do with my miserable life."

He's not sure he'd have the heart to follow through. It's still Elena, still love of Stefan's life, but she needs to understand that this is not a joke to him. He prepares the eggs, puts them into a plate and sets the table.

When he leaves, bringing Elena with him to end this conversation, the breakfast is ready and waiting for Bonnie. Everything is in the place it's supposed to be, so that she will not bump into anything and hurt herself.

#

She's slipping her leg into a stocking and he swears he never saw something so sexy and sweet at the same time.

"You're watching me," she says without raising her eyes from the floor, but there's only a tender reproach in her voice as she slips her other leg into her stocking and smiles.

"I can hardly be blamed," he says, kneeling in front of her to place a kiss on her knee.

"But you got it wrong, you're supposed to take off your clothes, not cover yourself up," he explains like he's talking to a baby. He has this urge to be tender with her, so that once her eyesight comes back she will be as tender with his miserable heart. He can't help it if he doubts what they have—it's not that she's not true to him, it's not that he wants anything else besides her—it's just that, what if suddenly she can _see_ there are much better things in the world than him?

No one has truly chosen him before.

"Are you disappointed?"

"Not at all, undressing you is my favorite activity," he reassures her with a light tone. "I absolutely love y-" and as soon as he realizes what he said he corrects himself "-_it,_" and he feels extremely stupid "I mean. I'm not-"

"In love with me?" she asks, her eyes on him.

"Well, I won't say it if you don't want me to say it." It's not even been a month and sometimes he feels like an idiot, like a scared puppy she could just kick out from her life once she realized what she's gotten into. "Everything can stay the same if you like it better this way. You and me, and what I feel for you, which we can call _love_ since it's the usual definition, or we can call _hate_… a very passionate, tender kind of hate which makes me want to be inside of you all day long, and hold you, and bite off the head of every man who looks your way, or we can just not call it at all, and use our mouths to- you're watching me."

"As you blabber like I've just asked you if I'm fat."

"You are not fat. I love every ounce of flesh on your body but you're looking at me." _And you do not look like you have any regrets._

"Yes," she says, "It's still blurry but now I… see you." And she must be seeing something she loves, because he swears her eyes sparkle.

"I'm hot, aren't I?" he asks, joking.

"Oh, what the hell have I got myself into?" she asks, but because she's smiling he can hear the question without any worry. "You, narcissist ass, get out!" she orders him, her smile still in place as she's pointing her finger towards the door of her bedroom.

"Make me," he dares her.

#

_But I will find love, that's a blind love  
It's the kind of love I need_

_[Blind Love – Passenger (UK)]_

**The end.**


End file.
